


Theirs

by Expectoprongs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Implied abuse, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Platonic Relationships, Possessive Behavior, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 16:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2395001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Expectoprongs/pseuds/Expectoprongs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What do you want, Moriarty,” the impatient voice of his roommate bit out. </p>
<p>Jim cut to the chase. </p>
<p>“John’s here. He’s hurt.” For once, there was no layer of teasing to his voice, no lilting in his tone. His voice was flat, he was straining to keep the emotion out of his inflection. </p>
<p>There was a sharp intake of breath. Jim knew that Sherlock loathed to leave his experiments, but they would both do anything for John. John was theirs. </p>
<p>“I’ll be right there.” The line went dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Theirs

**Author's Note:**

> Just in case you ignored the tags, there is implied non-con, and abuse in this. As well as character death.

It was creeping towards ten o’clock at night and Sherlock was still out in the chemistry labs. The light had bled out of the sky long ago, and the synthetic glow of streetlights had risen to take its place. Jim sat listlessly in front of the TV; picking his nails, doing math equations in his head, anything to take his mind off of the mind numbing boredom that plagued him whenever he was alone in the apartment. 

He couldn’t even go out. Sherlock had left his keys behind, and while Jim would normally be fine to leave his maladjusted roommate to his fate and relish the row that would doubtlessly follow, the thought of John coming back to smashed flatware and two keyed up geniuses made him feel- off. John would come back from his study group and placate both of them, calm them down, make them some tea. Ruffle Jim’s hair. Nudge Sherlock’s shoulder. Smile tiredly, and rub his eyes. He hadn’t had much time to himself between his boyfriend, studies, rugby, and keeping their ragtag group of Uni rejects together. But he was John, so he didn’t complain. He never gave up on them, even when Jim and Sherlock hated each other almost as often as they tolerated each other. John put up with them, accepted them. 

Without John, Sherlock and Jim would never work. The attraction was there, definitely. But where Jim was all devious and demure, Sherlock was sharp angles and bluntness. John was the median: warm, caring, intelligent, and blessedly normal. But not to be underestimated. Both the geniuses learned that the hard way (‘Do you think I’m an absolute moron?’ John had sighed at the drugged, unconscious forms of his two roommates. ‘I could hear you both plotting to humiliate my boyfriend. You’re not nearly as sneaky as you think you are,’ he grumbled as he poured the drugged tea he had made them down the drain.)

Jim started when he heard the soft rattling of a key against the lock on the door. It obviously wasn’t Sherlock then.

“It’s open!” Jim shouted over his shoulder, correctly his slightly slouched position on the battered couch. He flicked off the TV as the door opened slowly.

“Nice to know at least one of you isn’t a complete moron, Johnny. Sherlock locked himself-” he stopped as he took in his second roommate’s appearance. 

“John?” 

His head was ducked low, and his normally proud and confident posture slouched. Jim moved towards him, arms stuck rigidly by his sides. This was John’s job, to nurture, to comfort. He was out of his depth. But this was John, his roommate, his friend. Their friend. He couldn’t leave him there, coming apart at the seams in the kitchenette. 

“John, are you alright?”

His only answer was a slight trembling. He seemed frozen to the spot, unwilling to move further into their apartment, but also not able to make himself leave.

He drew closer, approaching John as though he were a skittish animal. The stocky man leaned away from him as he made his way into his personal space, and Jim could smell the lingering scent of sex overpowering the normal subtle aura of tea and oranges. 

“Johnny,” he whispered, sidling back ever so slightly. 

“Please,” is all he said, looking up- bruised blue meeting warm chocolate in some untold, desperate communicative gesture.

Jim gasped. 

Bruised jaw and black eye. Clothes rumpled as if hastily thrown on, sleeves just slightly too low over the hands to indicate that there were most likely bruises on the wrists. Red rimmed eyes. Pale complexion. Drawn features.

“Shhh, it’s alright.” he finally managed to get out over the red haze that was beginning to cloud his vision. He moved towards him again and embraced the trembling, sandy haired man, allowing him to burrow his face in his neck and cry in earnest.

No. This was wrong. He had never seen John cry, not even when his mother screamed at him when he came out, not when he talked about his abusive, alcoholic father. Jim’s hindbrain was hissing _mine_ as he led a weakly protesting John to the couch, wrapping him in an old afghan and pressing a cup of hot tea into his hand. 

“Who did this to you,” he heard himself growl in a voice he hardly recognized as his own.

“I c-can’t,” he stuttered, and Jim had to steady John’s hand to avoid spattered scalding tea all over himself. Jim’s hand was clenched so tightly his could feel his nails cut into his palm.

“Was it Carl Powers?” he hissed, and God, he was going to kill him. He was going to kill him. He never liked him, he put up with him for John’s sake only. Only for John.

“Oh God,” John cried and he put his tea down and buried his face in his hands. Jim almost screamed at him to stop, stop crying because it was hurting him, more than anything, but he knew that was ‘not-good’ as John would put it, and oh god, everything he learned about emotion was from John, he was going to kill Powers, he was dead, he was as good as dead the first time he looked at John, let alone laid a hand on him.

“I’m going to call Sherlock, okay?” he said, moderating his voice carefully. John didn’t answer, and had taken to staring blankly at his hands. “It’s going to be alright, John. We’ll make it okay.”

The line rang twice before Sherlock picked up.

“What do you want, Moriarty,” the impatient voice of his roommate bit out.

Jim cut to the chase.

“John’s here. He’s hurt.” For once, there was no layer of teasing to his voice, no lilting in his tone. His voice was flat, he was straining to keep the emotion out of his inflection. 

There was a sharp intake of breath. Jim knew that Sherlock loathed to leave his experiments, but they would both do anything for John. John was theirs.

“I’ll be right there.” The line went dead. 

It was ten minutes later that Sherlock stormed into the apartment like a hurricane, barely suppressed emotion flickering over his features before blinking back into obscurity.

“John?” he was breathless, eyes wide as he stared at his friend’s small, hunched form on the couch, Moriarty curled around him. _Protecting him,_ he realized with a jolt. Jim could be possessive and because of that, protective, but he never knew just how deeply these feelings ran for John. His slender hands carded through John’s coarse hair, and he looked up at Sherlock. 

He looked bloodthirsty, despite his obvious tenderness towards John. 

“Good. You’re back.” Sherlock suppressed a shiver. It was times like this that he wondered, if John hadn’t brought them together, just what paths they would have taken. 

“What happened?” Sherlock asked, sitting down next to John and frowning as he grabbed his coat desperately with quivering fingers, still huddled around Jim.

“Powers,” the Irishman snarled, carefully disentangling himself from John and shifting him closer to Sherlock. “He’s in shock.”

Sherlock looked closely at John’s condition and his heart stopped with the implications.

His chest began to compress with panic as he took over Jim’s previous role of coddling John. 

“I need you here,” Jim said, and Sherlock nodded passively, not taking his eyes off of his exhausted friend. 

“I’m going out, and I need you here, for John.” Jim said again. Sherlock frowned slightly at the implications of Moriarty’s statement. But he nodded again. Because some part of him howled for Carl’s blood, and he knew, while he could never follow through with it, James Moriarty could. 

“Go. I’ll stay here.” 

Jim was already out the door.

0O0

“What’re you doin’?”

His breath stank of alcohol, but Jim was beyond caring, beyond reason by this juncture. He just wanted to be done, and get back home to Sherlock and John. 

Sherlock. John.

“Fuck, where am I?” 

“Not at the bar anymore, sweetheart,” Jim purred, grabbing the much larger, but unstable boy by the arm and leading him into the building he had driven him to. 

“Wait, you’re- you’re that queer kid John’s always hanging out with,” Carl slurred. Jim’s blood boiled at the hypocrisy.

“You don’t get to say his name,” he hissed, shoving him through the doorway and into the pitch black lobby of the local YMCA.

“What, you wanna tap that arse? Well, it’s mine, prick, so piss off.” The swimmer was trying to jerk his arm out of Jim’s bruising grasp, but his reflexes were dulled with alcohol. Moriarty tugged him so that they were face to face.

“No,” he growled, face twisted into something nearly inhuman. They were in the pool room, the thick smell of chlorine filled the air. “John was never yours. He’s ours. We let him have you for a while, and you hurt him. So now~” he giggled slightly, pushing them closer to the pool, “it’s time we ended your relationship. Permanently.”

Carl’s eyes widened, sobered temporarily by the surge of adrenaline. But it was too late. The smaller man grasped his collar and arm, and bodily threw him into the shallow end of the pool. The swimmer sputtered slightly, floundering before finding his footing and standing. The water was up to his chest.

Jim calmly followed him into the pool, for once mindless of his clothes and appearance, and once again grabbed Powers tightly.

“Stop! Stop!” he bellowed loudly, but there was no one there to hear him as the livid Irishman shoved him under the water, holding him there as he thrashed. Carl had the size advantage, but he was still inebriated, and Jim was stronger than he seemed. It didn’t take long for the swimmer to slow, before stopping entirely. 

Moriarty let go of Carl and climbed out of the pool, wiping his hands on his soaked trousers. He walked out to his car purposefully and climbed in, leaving the floating body of John's abuser to be dealt with by someone else. His hair was wet, plastered to his forehead, and his clothes dripped onto the upholstery and the floor mat.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Like Johnny’s tears as he grappled mindlessly at Jim’s clothes, tugging him closer. Violated. Scared. Betrayed.

He stepped on the accelerator. 

John needed them.


End file.
